Dragonchild
by MythicElf
Summary: A collection of reimaginings of my old Dovahkiin stories to celebrate the return of my muse. A little bit of retconning, a little bit of explaining, a lot of adding important details. Rated T, mostly for language.
1. Prelude

A/N: This is a lot of words, I'm sorry.

Hi, guys! I dunno what the Skyrim fandom's been up to lately but I think it's time I get my ass back to writing again, and what better way to do it than to get back to my favorite boys? It's been an eon since I reliably wrote anything, and for that I'm sorry. College is awful for trying to do creative shit, which is why I basically fell off the face of the earth for the past few years. But I've graduated and become a Real Adult™ so I have time to write again. I don't even know if the people who liked my shitty writing are even still around, but, hey. A story is never for the listener. It is always for the one who tells. (Huntokar, 2017.) So, here's the plan for the rest of this year, at least:

\- I absolutely MUST rewrite Prologue, Prelude, and Soul of a Dov. Early 2012 Nick (that's me) thought she was writing some amazing shit. Early 2012 Nick was wrong. The characterization's inconsistent, the writing is crappy, that's not what drunk sounds like, and Marcurio's GOT to stop calling Dal his 'wife', because that shit's weird and kind of a problem? So I'm gonna do that, all in this one big story. I'll probably leave Crossing Borders alone because I hate it a lot less. (I might tweak chapters individually, and I'll let people know if/when that happens.)

\- Hopefully that lasts over the course of October, and then I'll do a 30 day challenge for Marcurio over November, because I want to work some stuff out with him as well.

\- After that I'll begin a new thing featuring a teenage Kylius, an older Dalamus and Marcurio, a few cameos from Sinding and Aendriel, and my new elf girl Corim.

And that is my plan to entertain y'all for the rest of the year. Wish me luck!

…

Lydia is only the most recent in a long list of people that Dalamus has lost.

She's the first, however, to die because of him.

He'll be angry later, angry that the sight of the Dwarven Centurion rattled him so thoroughly, that his hands shook as he reached for the arrows at his back, that Lydia hadn't escaped by the time he'd reached the lever to trap it behind the grate and now she's dead, speared through by the Centurion's bladed arm. That by the time he'd finally destroyed it he wasn't even strong enough to get her body out from under it. But for now he shuts down, his mind clouded with exhaustion and grief while his body continues its quest. He should feel accomplished when he finally claws his way back up to the snowy surface, Elder Scroll and runed lexicon in tow, but really he just needs a drink.

He only goes to give the cube to Septimus Signus because it's relatively close, but he regrets that decision when he has to tug his fur cloak up close around his face to keep his teeth from chattering. He gives up that stupid cube, a spark of passive irritation lighting somewhere in the back of his mind when he hears that Septimus Signus has more research to do with it, and will call for him later. But that does free Dal up to do what he likes for a while, because he'll be damned if anyone thought he was going to hike up the Throat of the World immediately after this ordeal.

It's time to get drunk.

But he avoids Windhelm on principle, so he urges his horse on to Riften, dismounting at the stables after little more than a day. The sky is a darkening scarlet as the door to the Bee and Barb closes behind him.

Keerava opens her mouth to offer a cheerful greeting when he seats himself at the counter, but thinks better of it at the look on his face. Instead of saying hello he reaches into his coin pouch and puts a giant handful of gold on the counter, grumbling, "Keep the mead flowing."

She's only happy to oblige.

…

Marcurio is immediately drawn to the head of white hair at the counter when he enters the Bee and Barb; he only knows one Dunmer with white hair, and it's been months since he last saw that Dunmer. He's mildly surprised that Dalamus came down to Riften without Lydia, but at least that frees up the stool next to him so Marc can sit down.

"Long time no see," he says, leaning back against the counter as Dal takes a long swig, draining his mug. The elf drops it heavily onto the counter, and turns to look at Marcurio as Keerava pours more mead inside.

"Hi, Marcurio." Dalamus tries to pick the mug up without looking, as his dull red eyes are trained on the Imperial next to him, but instead he accidentally knocks it over the other side of the bar counter.

Keerava jumps back with a hiss, turning angry eyes on the drunk elf. "That's enough for you."

Marc inserts himself into the conversation, because the look on Dal's face suggests that his response might get him kicked out. "Sorry, Keerava, let me pay for that—"

"He's good for it," the Argonian reassures him, waving him off, but looks irritatedly down at her shoes. "But he's had more than enough to drink."

"I'll tell you when I've had enough to drink," Dalamus slurs, suddenly getting up from the stool and lurching across the room. He grabs a mug from the table where Sapphire's sitting and drains it in a series of long gulps, slamming the empty cup down on the wood.

Sapphire gets up from her chair, giving the elf a dangerous look. "You shouldn't have done that, friend," she says, hooking her thumb into the belt where her dagger rests against her hip.

Dal steps up close to her, his face almost touching hers, and growls, "You wanna _fucking_ fight me, friend?"

Shit, it's time to get him away from all these people. Marcurio grabs Dalamus' arm, pulling him away from Sapphire with one hand and fishing coins out of the pouch at his side with the other. "Hey—hey, Dal, let's calm down a bit, okay? Sapphire, don't worry about him. Take this for the mead, and we'll get out of your hair."

"Don't tell me what to do," Marc is sure the archer means to snap it, but it comes out a bit too slow to retain its bite, even as he clumsily wrenches his arm from Marcurio's grip.

Sapphire takes the proffered coins and with a nod to the mage and takes Dalamus' seat at the bar. Marc turns to Keerava and nods, effectively taking responsibility for him. "Come on, Dal, let's get you upstairs."

"Whatever."

In the room Marcurio keeps, after a daunting trip up too many stairs for a place serving alcohol, Dalamus sits down on the bed, suddenly feeling dizzy and a little nauseated. He tips to the side, prepared for a descent into the soft layers of warm furs, but instead the side of his face finds itself in Marcurio's hand, which lifts him back upright. "Marcur—"

"What on Nirn is wrong with you?" the mage's voice is sharp, not necessarily angry but demanding an answer to his question. "I did not come here to babysit."

"Get off _,_ " Dal grumbles instead, shaking Marcurio's hand from his face and instantly regretting it. He leans forward with a groan, putting his head between his knees in an attempt to stave off the urge to throw up all over the Imperial's room.

Marc sighs, realizing that he won't getting anything out of him in this state. He puts a hand to the back of the Dunmer's head, murmuring a short string of words. Dalamus' head jerks upward, the beginnings of a protest on his lips, but the spell is already glowing gold around Marc's hand, so he just shushes the elf and gets on with it.

Dal lets out another groan as the cloud in his head clears, and while he's happy his stomach has settled, he was drunk for a reason. "I said, get _off_ ," he growls, sitting up straight and roughly shoving Marcurio's hands away.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Marc demands, grabbing those shoving hands. "You can't show up here again after all these months and just start threatening people."

"I can and I did."

Marcurio lets him wrench his hands back, giving him a long look. "You're not usually this hostile. What happened?"

"Don't worry about it," Dalamus grumbles, hugging his knees to his chest.

"Does it have to do with Lydia not being here?"

At that, the Dunmer lets out a small, choked noise from the back of his throat and buries his face in his hands. Marc doesn't quite hear the words he mumbles.

"Huh?"

"She's dead," Dal says again, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "She's dead because of me, and I left her body there and I was drunk for a _reason_ , asshole!"

That gives the mage pause, and his voice lowers when he offers his condolences. But then his eyes narrow. "You left her there?"

One red eye peeks up at him over navy-grey knuckles, white brow arched incredulously, "Excuse me?"

"You obviously loved her. Your _lover_ died in your service and you left her body down in some dungeon?"

"What? No. She was just a friend."

"That makes it okay?"

" _No_ , that's not what I'm saying. She followed me into that hole because she wanted to; I wouldn't have made her. And that doesn't excuse it either, but I wasn't…" the eye closes, and a deep breath shudders in his chest, "I wasn't strong enough to get her out of there."

"But when were you going to go back for her?" Marcurio asks, crossing his arms across his chest, "You weren't strong enough at first, sure. But how long were you going to going to sit at that bar and drown your sorrows in alcohol? You have to go back for her body."

A panicked look flashes through Dalamus' eyes. "I can't."

"You owe it to her, Dal. Friend or not, she was your housecarl, and her burial is on your shoulders."

"Fine, fine!" he takes in a long, steadying breath, running his hands back through his hair. "But not on my own. I can't go back there by myself."

Marcurio studies him for a bit, watches the Dragonborn retreat into himself when he doesn't answer immediately. "That's fair. We leave in the morning."

" _What_ —" his voice cracks over the word, and he has to clear his throat to go on. "Why so soon?"

"Dalamus. You can't let her rot down there." Marc says it like he's a child, like he's in trouble and he doesn't understand why. He heaves a sigh, nodding slowly as he accepts the responsibility.

"Fine."

…

The sky is bleeding a milky pink when the pair leave the city gates, bags in tow. Marc strokes the nose of Dal's horse as he saddles her up, and turns to leave coin for the stablehand.

"What's her name?"

Dalamus looks at him funny for a second, then continues securing their things on her back. "She doesn't have a name."

"Why not?"

"I had no intention of staying here before I got wrapped up in all this Dragonborn nonsense," the elf grumbles, taking the reins from his companion as they set out north, toward Windhelm. "She was just supposed to get me back across the border to Morrowind."

"That's no excuse." Dal doesn't comment back, so Marcurio goes on, "So, when you're done this 'Dragonborn nonsense', what then?"

"If I'm not dead?" the elf simply shrugs. "I don't know. Probably go back."

"Nothing to keep you here, huh?"

"Not really. But there isn't much to make me go back home, either."

"You could make a life here," Marc says, pensive, "Find a woman, settle down on a farm somewhere. Or not, maybe you're the city type. I don't know."

"I'm not really interested in women," Dalamus lowers his voice as they pass a guard tower.

Marcurio just blinks. "Oh, well. Settle down with a man, then."

"It's always such a pleasant surprise when people act like that's no big deal," Marc looks back and the smile in his voice is also painted across his face, a sweet curve to his lips and a flash of white teeth as he opens his mouth to continue, "I do like that about Skyrim."

"It's not like that in Morrowind?"

Dal barks a laugh. "It is, mostly, but that doesn't matter when you're an only child. My grandparents were beside themselves when I brought my first sweetheart home."

The Imperial just nods, keeping to himself what happened when he brought a man home for the first time. "It's probably a real relief for you, then."

"Yeah, it is," the smile turns a little bitter, eyes darkening sadly. "Lydia laughed at me when I told her. She thought it was weird that I said it so quietly."

Marcurio narrows his gait, moving back to walk beside the Dunmer. "You're doing the right thing, you know."

"I know. And I don't want you to think that I wasn't going back for her; that place is just… a lot," he attempts to hide his shaking hands by shoving them in his pockets. Marc doesn't miss it.

…

It's early evening when Marcurio and Dalamus emerge on the northern side of Wayward Pass, though that's the closest estimation they could make as the sky is an angry, dirty gray that hurls snow in all directions, with winds sharp enough to cut right through the furs on their backs. Dal, having been raised on a farm, is usually loathe to use the Clear Sky shout because of the greater implications all weather has on the farming season…

But the wind at the mouth of the pass is biting, forcing the Dragonborn's eyes to shut against the sharp shards of snow it carries. He grips the Altar of Arkay to his right, taking a deep breath as a rough heat floods down his throat and hooks its claws inside his chest. All he can do is hope Marc's not in the way when he Shouts, " _Lok vah koor!_ " into the blasting wind through the mouth of the pass; it doesn't hurt much, but up here in the mountains, a Shout to the face would ring his head like a bell.

Almost immediately the wind calms, the snowfall trickles down to a gentle dusting, and then both disappear entirely. Dal bangs a fist to his chest and coughs, the space under his ribs feeling cold and hollow after the heat the Shout had held. The deep breath he'd taken leaves him in a huff as he looks up, taking in the sight of the lift down into Alftand.

They make much better time after the storm, especially since the lift isn't far from the pass. Marcurio works the lever to take them down, though Dalamus is the first to exit once they reach the bottom. The body of a Redguard is lying just outside the gate to the lift, and Marc glances back to gauge Dal's reaction, but the Dunmer steps over her without a thought, as well as the Imperial a bit further in, beside a square stairwell.

They pass through the gate at the other end of the chamber, and Marcuio hesitates at the sight before him.

Two Dwarven Centurions lay destroyed at the base of the stairs, though one just seems broken, rendered inoperative by time. The other was clearly fought with tooth and nail; the metal composing its body is scraped and chipped and dented and partially _melted_. Dalamus, who had stopped a few stairs below him, is clenching his hands repeatedly— _open, shut, open, shut_ —Marc closes the distance, putting a hand on the archer's shoulder.

"I'm right here. You can do this." Dal still doesn't move, and the Imperial can see that his jaw clenches from where he stands. "Nothing's going to happen."

That gets him a little nod, and they begin to move down the stairs. As they near the Centurion Marcurio looks around for Lydia, but her body is nowhere to be found, until Dalamus kneels beside the destroyed automaton.

"A little help?" he says, cracking his knuckles and reaching under the Centurion. Marc moves in beside him, gripping as well, and together they lift it, inch by inch, off of Lydia's body. By the time they've shoved it off completely they're panting, and sweating, arms and shoulders screaming with exertion.

Marcurio is still trying to get his bearings when he hears Dal let out a sob beside him. Lydia's eyes stare blankly at the ceiling, her mouth still open in a gasp of pain. The wound in her middle is enormous, a gaping gash right through her armor. It's still covered in flaking, dried blood, the same color as the huge stain in the stone of the floor.

Dalamus has a hand over his mouth, eyes shining with unshed tears. "I'm so sorry," he whispers through his fingers, and lunges forward, reaching for the body of his friend.

"Stop!" Marc is just quick enough to stop him, grabbing him by the back of his armor and pulling him back. "Don't touch her!"

"Why not?!" the Dunmer demands, yanking himself out of Marcurio's grip.

"You can't touch a body that's been dead for this long, it'll make you sick."

Dal relaxes then, swiping a hand over his face. "How do we get her out, then?"

"Pick her up by her armor. We'll take her to the Sea of Ghosts and give her a true Nord funeral."

Dalamus takes her by the steel near her shoulders, and the mage takes her ankles, and they move back up the stairs toward the lift. Back on the surface they drape her across the archer's horse, protected by one of the furs they'd brought along. With Dal keeping the skies clear and the horse moving at a steady plod, they reach the northern coast in less than two hours.

It's the middle of the night, but the sky is alight with ribbons of turquoise light when they lay Lydia's body out on a floating sheet of ice. Dalamus bends down, setting the small gathering of wood they'd placed around her body alight with his torch, and kicks the ice out away from the shore. They watch the makeshift pyre float out into the sea, encouraged by the current and the winds.

"So what are you going to do now?" Marc asks later that night, when they're seated by the hearth at the Nightgate Inn, "I'm sure there's still more you have to do to save us all from the dragons."

Dalamus just shrugs. "I don't want to go back to that yet. The past few months have been nothing but running back and forth across the country for other people. I'd never been to Skyrim before; it isn't making a good impression."

"Go see it for yourself, then. Take a break. You deserve it."

"I do," the Dunmer says, as if just deciding that for himself. "Do you want to come with me?"

Marcurio appears to consider it, then nods. "I don't see why not. I've been wanting a change of scenery. Let's go see the sights."

…

Dalamus and Marcurio spend a few weeks in the wilderness, traveling across the country at their own pace, either finding safe places to sleep at night or bunking at a conveniently-placed inn. They mainly avoid the major cities, as Dal's fame finds him enough in the dragons they encounter occasionally along the way. No use in going into town only be be given another task by some self-important official. Tonight they're camped on the western bank of Lake Ilinalta, roasting salmon over a fire. Or, at least, Marc is.

"Nope, fish is disgusting," Dalamus grunts, laying back on his bedroll and looking up at the stars. "I should still have some horker jerky left, though. Can you grab it out of my bag?"

Marc goes through the bag, searching for the satchel of dried meat, but his fingers touch something much more interesting. He grips the rough disc, thumb brushing over a smooth stone at the center, and pulls out an Amulet of Mara. "How long have you had this?"

Dal rolls over, looking at what the Imperial is talking about. "Ages. I found it on a bandit in some fort Lydia and I cleared a long time ago."

"Did she tell you what it is?" Marcurio puts it down carefully, continuing his search as he listens for his companion's answer.

"Yes. I never wore it because I didn't have the time to find a lover."

"I've been wearing one for months," the mage murmurs, and finally locates the jerky Dalamus had asked for. "But it's hard to find a new love interest when you're looking at the same people all day, every day."

Dal grins, catching the wrapped bundle Marcurio had thrown to him. "Thank goodness I came along, then, huh?"

"Why, Dalamus, is that a proposal?" the raised brow is evident both in Marc's teasing tone and on his face.

"Sure," the Dunmer shrugs, taking a big bite of jerky. "You've been good to me, and I've enjoyed all this time we've spent together. Besides, don't think I haven't caught you looking at my ass when we go swimming."

"You're the one who insists on swimming naked," he shoots back, laughing as he reaches to turn his fish over.

"I'm serious," Dal says, crawling around to the other side of the fire on his hands and knees. He doesn't stop until he's practically in Marcurio's lap, his nose pressed against the Imperial's, lips a hair's breadth away from each other. "I want to be with you, if you'd have me. Stop me if you want to."

Marc doesn't stop him, and Dalamus kisses him full on the mouth. His body flushes with warmth, like a hot breath coursing over his skin, and his arms immediately wrap around the Dunmer, pulling him closer. Dal's lips are warm and dry, and his mouth tastes like the spices of the jerky. His hand curls around the back of Marcurio's head, fingers threading in the hair there, and attempts a little lick into the mage's mouth. Marc does him one better and goes all in, alternating strokes of his tongue with little nibbles at those warm, dry lips; Dalamus responds in kind with a chuckle that rumbles in his throat.

When they pull apart it's only because Dal's jaw is tired, and Marcurio's stomach is empty. They eat in a companionable silence, and while they still go to sleep on opposite sides of the fire Marc finds himself lying awake for a while, watching the Dunmer sleep. It occurs to him that he never gave Dalamus an answer, but just after that he decides that it doesn't really matter, because he'd be crazy not to say yes.

…

A/N: So what had happened was, I accidentally yol-ed Lydia to death while fighting that Centurion in Alftand on my first Skyrim playthough, and I think reloading from a previous save was too much work, so she stayed dead. Then I went and found Marcurio, and the rest is history.

I'll try to have the new Prelude up next week or so. I REALLY tried to have this up yesterday but I got busy and ended up falling asleep before I could do my last read-through. Somebody fight me if I don't have this next joint up next Monday.

I'll do my best, I promise. xo


	2. Prologue

A/N: Y'all I'm so sorry I did my best. (Not that anyone's holding me accountable lol.) I'll try to do better though.

The theme for this chapter is the great underuse of italics and the word "fuck" in literature.

…

"'Let's go to Whiterun,' he says. 'Riften smells like fish and sadness,' he says."

"In my defense, it does smell like fish and sadness—"

"Good Gods, who cares?!" Marcurio shouts, his body whirling around in his husband's direction. "I didn't move all the way out here to become your damn housewife."

Dalamus crosses his arms, staring the mage down. "Marc, you're overreacting, and you know it."

"You are leaving me here!" Marc slams the pestle he's holding down on the table to his right, a hint of desperation sneaking into his tone. "You're climbing on a fucking dragon and flying off to Gods-know-where and you're _leaving me here_. You need me!"

"I do need you," the Dunmer lowers his voice, lowers his eyes, deferring to Marcurio's point. He attempts a step closer, reaching out for his husband's hand. "And that's why I need you to stay he—"

"Bullshit," Marc snaps back, yanking his hand out of the silverhead's reach.

"Marcurio, what do you want me to say?"

"That you're taking me with you."

"I'm _not_ —" Dalamus takes a breath, calming himself before he goes on. "I really don't want you to go. And I wish you could respect that."

"You want me to respect your death wish? I think not. Remember last time you decided to fight on your own? Remember almost bleeding out in my fucking lap because you had an arrow clean through your middle? Because I do. You need me to go with you."

"Yes, I do remember. I also remember that entire day being a disaster, but that's beside the point. And isn't that why you taught me that healing spell?"

"It doesn't matter what spells you know; you have the magicka of a field mouse. You'll fuck around and end up dead because you want to be a damn glory hog."

The Dunmer recoils as if hit, disbelief scrawled clearly across his face. "Is that why you think I don't want you to come?"

"Why else would it be? We bought this house because you didn't want to live with me in Riften, or was it because people weren't addressing you properly there, _Harbinger_?" Marc punctuates the title with a bow, his voice deepening mockingly.

"I'm not even going to address that 'glory hog' nonsense, because you already know with one hundred percent certainty that that isn't true. But let me ask; where, exactly, were we supposed to live in Riften? You lived in a fucking inn!" Dal knows that isn't fair, but they'd already had this conversation, and if Marc wants to start saying dumb, untrue shit about him, then all bets are off. "Were we supposed to rent that room indefinitely? Spend every night squished up together in that narrow-ass bed?"

"There _are_ houses there, Dal. At least if you'd decided to ditch me in Riften I'd be able to see my friends there."

"Talen-Jei and Keerava weren't your friends; they were your landlords!" The Dunmer starts to gather his things, throwing them into his bag as his voice grows in volume. He doesn't even take a breath before he continues, his chest growing uncomfortably hot, "I am so sorry that I yanked you out of Riften, since you obviously loved it so much. Because I didn't, and you know that, because we _fucking_ talked about it before we decided to buy this _fucking_ house. But did you actually want to stay in Riften or are you just being an asshole? Because getting robbed every two days sounds like a lot of _fucking_ fun!"

Marc opens his mouth to respond but Dal keeps talking right over him. "And, yes, I do remember that time I almost bled out in your lap. Frankly, I'm insulted that you think that's the best I can do on my own considering the fucking Forsworn ambushed our camp in the middle of the night. But that's also beside the point. Do you remember the time before that when I had to fight on my own?"

The Imperial just nods, stunned into silence at the ferocity of Dalamus' response.

"So you remember how that went, right? Lydia died, Marc. She followed me into Alftand because I needed her, and now she's dead," he slings the bag back over his shoulder, taking a breath, and his voice drops to a murmur as he wills away the heat crawling up his throat. "I dragged her into all this and she lost her life in my service. I won't do the same to you."

"I've survived this far. What gives you the right to tell me to stay home now?"

"This isn't just some dragon on the road, or a fort we've decided to clear on a whim. I'm going to Sovngarde to kill Alduin; it'll be the hardest thing I've ever done."

"Sovngarde?" that gives Marcurio pause. "All those Nords from generations past? Do you really think they'd jump up to help an elf do anything?"

"Well, they'd better, if they want the living to keep living," Dal shrugs, "But that's the thing. I live here, there are people I like here, but I don't give a damn about this country, and plenty of the people who live in it would be happy to say the same about me. I don't care about any of them."

His hand lifts to Marc's face, thumb brushing just under an amber-colored eye. "Give me something to come home to. Please."

"I don't like this," the mage murmurs, turning his face into Dalamus' hand. "What if you get hurt? I won't be there."

"Then I guess I'll have to be careful."

Dal had smiled a little at that, but Marcurio didn't find it particularly encouraging. He takes the Dunmer by his shoulders, fingers squeezing a little bit. "Alright, listen. You have to protect yourself on all sides now, so keep your ears open. You favor your left, so make sure you look over your right shoulder more often since I'm usually there. Don't try to kill everything you see; just make sure you get back here alive, you hear?"

"Marc, everything's going to be f—"

"Dalamus, please." It's the elf's turn to fall silent at the fervor in his husband's voice. "I want you to come home to me; I'll never forgive myself for not fighting this harder if you don't come back."

"I know. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Good. Oh, um, here," Marc says, releasing Dal's shoulders to turn and grab a few invisibility potions from the table behind him. "Take these."

"I thought they were for Amren?" the Dragonborn protests, but still turns to put them in his bag.

"They were, but since I'm not going anywhere, I'll have the time to make more." He lets out a sigh, giving Dalamus a long look, then sweeps him up suddenly in a tight hug. "Be careful, Dal, _please_. I love you."

"I love you, too," Dal breathes, gripping his robes tightly at the sudden realization that this could be the last time he gets to say it.

…

"Fuck fuck fuck _fuck fuck_ —"

Dalamus sprints down the corridor, with five or six Draugr loping after him. His back is still a strange mix of freezing cold and burning hot, all thanks to the spell one of the helmeted undead had cast against him; thank the ancestors that it had tried to freeze him instead of lopping off his unsuspecting head.

Suddenly there's a growl on his right side, far too close, and he feels something cut through the numb feeling of frozen flesh, a line trailing from his spine up to his shoulder. Panic is a hot fist around his throat and he spins around, barking out a desperate " _Fus ro dah!_ " and sending the Draugr flying back up the narrow hall. He's still catching his breath as he reaches back for his arrows; the shots are clumsy since he can't really feel his right arm, but they land, and now there's a pile of bodies where formidable-enough foes once stood.

Dal drops to his knees, taking a moment to get himself together. The chill at his back is beginning to fade, giving way to a sharp sting that he immediately knows is a problem. His arm practically screams in protest as he reaches up to unhook his quiver from his back, enough that he uses his left hand instead. As the weight falls from his back a whimper slips, unbidden, from his lips, and the panic returns. He reaches up with shaking fingers, finding a knuckle-deep gash at the back of his shoulder. His finger touches what he's afraid to assume is bone and the entire region flares up in pain; his teeth almost meet through his tongue.

When he finally regains control of his faculties he rifles through his bag for the healing potions he'd hoarded for the trip with his left hand while being very careful to keep the right still and close to his chest. He splashes the first over his back with bloodstained fingers, shivering as the cold liquid seeps down the wound all the way to his spine. The second and third he drinks, and it's all he can do to keep quiet through the sensation of flesh stitching itself back together.

…

Marcurio, meanwhile, is suffering through a fitful sleep when his right shoulder may as well go up in flames. He rolls out of bed with a shriek, blankets turned to ashes in his grip as he searches for his attacker with wild eyes. When he finds none he reaches up, trembling fingers touching the skin over his shoulder blade, and lets out a breath that also trembles.

…

It's well into the night when Dalamus trudges up to Breezehome, six days after he'd left. Even after spending nearly two of those days traveling—rushing—down the Throat of the World, his throat burns, each breath tearing down into the hollow chill of his lungs with sharp claws. It's the opposite of how he feels when he's preparing to shout; instead, that's a thick, heavy heat, like fresh, honeyed mead.

The Dragon Priest at the mouth of the portal had fought hard, and in trying to get some distance between them with his arrows he'd aggravated the barely-healed wound dealt him by the Draugr. Felldir had healed him more thoroughly, but that was almost immediately rendered moot when they went on to fight Alduin, and instead of wasting his magicka again the old Nord had made him a sling with cloth found in the Hall of Valor and told him to let it heal on its own.

So he unlocks the door with his left hand, the right held close to his chest. When he takes the first step into the house, panting breaths rough in his throat, he almost sobs in relief at the familiar sight of the firepit, the weapons on the walls—his home. He's walked the path laid for him since he set foot in this country, he's won… and now he's home.

The first thing he does is bathe, because he's been gone for almost a week and nobody deserves to wake up next to him while he smells and feels and looks like this. He's happy to take his time, and the water is dark and cloudy when he's finished, but he's clean and dry and more than satisfied.

He moves up to the bedroom, arm tied up close to his body with a quick approximation of the sling Felldir had made for him, and his heart actually swells in his chest when he sees Marcurio.

The Imperial is sprawled across their bed, a low snore rumbling in his throat, with one hand clutching… is that Dal's shirt? He smiles, sitting at the edge of the bed in the space between Marc's elbow and knee, and gently shakes the man's shoulder. "Love?"

All he gets is a little grumble in reply, so he tries again. "Marc, let me in the bed."

Unlike him, Marcurio is actually capable of waking up when someone wants his attention, even if it's only a little bit. He rolls over onto his side, reaching out for the Dunmer. "Dal, why're you up so late?" he slurs, eyes still shut. "C'mere."

Dal is happy to slip into the space provided him, curling up against the mage's front on his left side. Marc's arm comes down to rest on his hip, hand nestled in under his ribs where they meet the mattress. "Love you," he murmurs, burying his nose in the soft, damp hair behind a pointed ear.

"Still want to move back to Riften?" Dalamus tries, smirking as he gets comfortable.

"No moving; sleeping," is the reply, and the arm around his middle squeezes gently.

That sounds about right.

…

A/N: and the rest is history, you know. Next up is the Soul of a Dov rewrites. I may have to push my schedule back a month if life is gonna keep me from doing a chapter a week. But I'm gonna do my best! I'm aiming to get Soul1 up by Monday but don't have high hopes. If that doesn't work, I'll try to have Soul1 and 2 up by the next Monday. Basically they'll be up when they're up, lol.


	3. Soul of a Dov I

A/N: Y'all get out your erasers, cuz we're retconning the shit out of this storyline. Having Dal shit out a baby was dumb, and we don't tolerate dumb 'round here anymore (she says, knowing that she'll probably think that this is dumb in two years). After this I guess I'll have to update the second chapter of Crossing Borders, too, because new timing.

Also, this chapter starts out raunchy as hell, like Rated-M-for-sex raunchy (she says, refusing to change the story rating for this piece of a chapter). Because backstory is important, to go along with that new timing. And also because I don't think I've ever written a straight lemon before and I wanna branch out, even if this doesn't really count. If you don't wanna read the raunch, I'll start and the sexy part with ..~.. so you'll know where to skip to.

This is gonna be great.

..~..

"You're so sensitive like this," Marcurio breathes in between kisses, the smirk that doesn't have time to appear on his face resting in his tone.

"Stop teasing me," it comes out in a whisper, and she tries to push her thighs together, but the Imperial holds her right where she is. "Marc—"

Her whimpered demand is cut short, and turned into a shriek, when he bites the inside of her thigh. She has to press a hand over her mouth as he begins to suck a bruise into the soft flesh there, especially because he's keeping her almost entirely still with very little effort. When he finally pulls back, lapping the flat of his tongue over the dark purple mark, the breath she lets out shakes. "... I don't like this."

"You don't? I do." He presses his lips against a spot a bit further up her thigh, and she tenses in anticipation. "See? Sensitive. And I'm stronger than you now."

Dal's response is grumbled under her breath. "Not a good thing."

"It is, you'll see," Marc murmurs, peppering more kisses along the Dunmer's thighs. "Gods, you're so _soft_ …"

"Stop," she whines, the teasing pecks that land everywhere except where she really wants them driving her up the wall, but then the Imperial finally lowers his head, sliding his hands up both of her legs, and he _kisses_ her.

A gasp passes through her lips, and her fingers slip down encouragingly into his hair almost on their own. Amber eyes flick up to her face, a cheeky smirk dancing in them, before they close and Marcurio focuses on the task at hand—it's all gentle kisses, and warm swirls or flicks of tongue, and occasionally his lips close around her and he _sucks_ and her eyes damn near roll back in her head. Her skin's all gone to gooseflesh, every inch of it chilling over and tingling, except that tiny spot between her legs where Marc is focusing his attention. That stays very, very warm.

Dalamus opens her eyes, which is actually really fucking hard to do right now, and the tingles surge over her skin at the sight of her husband's head bobbing between her legs. She wishes she could watch, could see as well as feel the way his mouth moves on her below that patch of white hair, but feeling is doing a spectacular job on its own. There's a damp patch in the covers under her ass that she's sure is her doing, and when Marcurio makes a low, rumbling, _delicious_ noise against her skin she knows she's about to do a lot more doing.

" _Marc_ ," she gasps, tugging gently but insistently at his hair, "Marc, I'm—!"

Dal doesn't even manage to get the rest of the sentence out; the words die on her lips at the way his arms immediately tighten around her legs, and he tucks in with renewed vigor.

She comes embarrassingly fast.

But she doesn't have time to be embarrassed about it; her eyes squeeze shut, and everything after that is pure bliss… the tingles return a hundredfold, dancing over her skin as everything inside her sinks, like she's falling. Marc keeps going, but gently, drawing the sensation out a little longer with each lick.

When her body finally stops trembling she opens her eyes and lets out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. She can feel her pulse everywhere, like the base of her skull and her arms and her knees and, most importantly, between her legs. At her glance down she sees her husband gazing back up at her with awestruck eyes.

"I love you," he says dreamily, turning his head to kiss her thigh. "That was amazing to watch."

"I've never come like that in my life," she murmurs back, a little amazed herself.

Marcurio chuckles, wiggling his fingers at her. " _Women_."

He crawls up her body, settling between her legs, and trails kisses upwards as he goes. "Still hate this body?" he asks when they're face to face, his forehead resting on hers.

"It's still something I'll have to get used to," she answers, because coming with her entire body is nice, but there are other things in life. "But I can't say I'm unhappy right now."

"I'll take that," Marc murmurs it right as their lips meet, and Dalamus' hands come up to frame his face on both sides. The kiss is soft, and deep, and he feels more than hears her let out a little hum when she tastes herself on his tongue. He reaches back with his free hand, the one not holding him up, and draws her thigh up along the side of his body. Her heel presses into the small of his back as he kisses down her neck, burying his face in her shoulder, and with a tilt of his hips, slips inside her.

And he immediately has to pause, because it's been a _long_ time since he was last inside a woman.

His groan is muffled by Dal's skin, and his toes dig into the bedsheets. He'd thought she was soft on the outside, but inside? Inside she's like silk, and warm, and wet, and so, so _tight_.

"Gods—" he chokes out, and the hand not holding her leg tightens in the sheets near their heads. Dalamus, in turn, lets out a sharp breath into his shoulder, and when he pulls back to look she's staring up at him, eyes wide with wonder. "... Okay?" it's all he can get out right now, but the cautious concern in his voice is apparent.

Her response is a little nod, and Marcurio is pulled back down on top of her body when her heel presses insistently into his back. "I know that's not all you've got," she murmurs it so close that her lips touch his ear, arms sliding around his shoulders and pulling him in close. "I want it all."

He comes embarrassingly fast.

Not at that moment, but not very long after, because, apparently, he can't handle himself inside a vagina. And he does have time to be embarrassed; he's still rocking his hips into hers, halfway through a groan against her neck, when the realization hits him. His eyes snap open and he shoots upright, the last waves of pleasure ignored in lieu of trying to come up with an explanation for the _nonsense_ that just transpired because that is _not_ how this was supposed to go!

Dal has a hand over her mouth, obviously trying to hold in a laugh, and her eyes are dancing with the ridicule she won't verbalize.

He holds up a finger, mouth opening to say something, anything, but all that comes out is, "... Don't."

The laugh escapes, and Marc falls backwards onto the bottom half of the bed with a groan, burying his face in his hands. Dalamus sits up to chase him, still laughing as she tries to get her words out, "No—Marc, I—I'm so sorry—it's okay, really!"

"It's not okay," he grumbles, refusing to move his hands even as she tugs at his arms. "I'm better than that, and you know it."

"I know, love, I know," the laughing has stopped, at least, and he finally lets her pull one hand from his face. "But we do have all night for you to do better."

 **..** ~ **..**

Marcurio rolls over onto his side, pulling the covers up and over his shoulder, and it takes his sleep-addled brain a moment, but he realizes that he's alone in bed. The dip that Dal's body had occupied is cool; he'd been out of bed for a while, why? The Dunmer rarely ever gets up in the middle of the night.

Rubbing at an eye and arching his back in a stretch, Marc gets out of bed, keeping the sheets wrapped around his body in the cooler nighttime air as he makes his way out of the bedroom. "Dal?"

What he gets in reply is a weak groan from under the stairs, and the concern that spikes through his nerves sends him rushing down those stairs to get to the Dragonborn. Dalamus is curled around a bucket, his face an ashen blue-gray, and he'd tossed his hair up over his shoulder just in time to get it out of the way. He takes a few deep breaths, looks up to see what the fuss is all about, but the quick movement of his head sends him right back to retching into the bucket.

"Baby, what's wrong?" Marcurio asks gently, settling beside him, and both of his hands are already glowing golden when he reaches out to brush the damp white locks out of his face.

"I don't know," the silverhead murmurs, spitting out a sour gob of saliva. He tips his head over into the Imperial's glowing hand, the magic curling into his skin and settling his roiling stomach… for a few seconds, because the sensation returns again with a vengeance, and he barely has time to get his face into the bucket before he's throwing up the last of the contents of his stomach.

Marc tries to offer the other hand, reaching out to touch the other side of the Dunmer's face, but he jerks back. "Stop, that just makes it worse."

"Sorry," the mage mutters, and he kills the flow of magicka to his fingers, but keeps them where they are, gently supporting his husband's head. "What did we eat last night? Was there something wrong with the goat roast? I'll have to have a conversation with Anoriath—"

"No, it's not the goat," Dal interrupts, "This has been happening for the last few days."

"Days? What do you mean, 'days'? How many days?" The words all come out at once, spurred by a fresh wave of anxiety that courses through Marcurio's veins like ice.

The silverhead frowns, thinking, "Since Middas."

"Middas? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought I could just wait for it to pass, don't worry about it."

"But Dal—"

"I'm fine," the Dunmer says, his voice ringing with finality… or, it would have, if it didn't shake a little at the end of that sentence.

"If you say so."

The words have barely passed his lips when Dalamus leans for the bucket again.

…

Despite the early start to their day, Marc is up a bit after sunrise.

He gets out of bed with a yawn, stretching his arms over his head, and pulls on a pair of pants before heading down the stairs. Breakfast is cheese and butter on a slice of bread, warmed over the coals of the dying fire and inhaled with half a bottle of mead leftover from last night. After that he shaves away three days' worth of beard, which continues to grow in way too fast and way too thick despite the fact that he's cut his facial hair the exact same way for the last fifteen years. The patch below his lip is nice and neat when he's finished.

It's approaching noon by the time he's gotten into his work in the alchemy lab, boiling down a portion of dragon's tongue nectar for a customer's order of a salve, and crushing a few different herbs while the liquid reduces. He's smearing it into a paste on the table when Dal finally descends the stairs above him, and he's happy to leave it alone for a moment to go meet him.

"Well, good morning," Marcurio quips teasingly as the Dunmer hits the bottom of the stairs, and it catches him in the middle of the yawn, so it takes him a moment to respond.

"Morning," he mumbles back, and leans in for a quick kiss.

"Feeling any better?"

Dalamus shrugs, swallowing just to see how it feels. "I'm okay. It usually gets better a little later in the day."

"I made cheese toast earlier this morning, do you want some?"

"No, thanks," he doesn't even have to take a whiff of the thick, savory scent of melted cheese that still lingers to feel his stomach clench nauseously. "I'll eat something at Jorrvaskr. There should be some new work coming through, if you're up for a trip."

"I'm always up for a trip. Just let me know when." Marc's eyes narrow at the face his husband makes, the heavy bob of the knot in his navy throat. He'd caught that.

They kiss again before Dal leaves, and the mage returns to his work. He takes his time carefully finishing, packaging, and delivering the items he'd made as per the orders he'd received. Fralia Grey-Mane, the customer who'd ordered the dragon's tongue salve, kisses him on the cheek when he takes it to her stand at the market. "It's good for my hands," she explains, already rubbing a bit between her gnarled fingers. "Keeps the old bones from aching."

When Marcurio gets back home he settles in front of the fire pit, drawing magicka up to his fingertips, and begins to attempt the telekinesis spell he's still trying to get the hang of. It's slow going but he's actually got the cooking pot up a few inches when Dalamus comes marching into the house, a wrinkled sheet of paper in his hand and a grin on his face. Needless to say, the mage's concentration shatters and the pot clatters rudely back into its holder.

"Oh—!" he takes pause, hand hovering just beyond his lips, "Sorry…"

"No, fuck it, I'm _done_ ," Marc growls, pushing the chair he's in away from the fire with his feet and stuffing his painfully-tingling fingertips under both armpits. His eyes are closed, an attempt to ward off the headache he knows is coming, but he hears the door close, and footsteps crossing the room, and then there's an elf straddling his lap, knees pressed in between his thighs and the arms of the chair.

"You'll get it," the Dunmer says gently, leaning in to give the mage a kiss on the cheek. The skin under his lips is shaved smooth; there's a hum of delight and another kiss. "You shaved."

Marcurio wraps his arms around the other's waist, pulling him close. "I shaved this morning, you didn't notice then?"

"I was exhausted," is Dal's excuse, and he's sticking to it.

"So, what was on the thing?"

"Hm?" he sits up, then remembers what Marc's talking about, and pulls the folded sheet out of a pocket on his thigh. "Oh, right. Some bandits stole an amulet from the wrong person, apparently. Want to go with me to get it back?"

The Imperial lets out an indifferent grunt, reaching out to tilt the paper so he can read it. "That's what you were so excited about?"

A blue finger comes pointing right in the middle of the sentence he's reading, and he follows its direction. It stops right over the word 'Rift'. "Let's go see some friends, while we're in the neighborhood."

"When do we leave?"

…

The sun is blazing a dying gold when they cross the bridge into Ivarstead. They'd gotten off to a slow start—Dalamus had taken a short nap after their late lunch, and the still-unnamed horse hadn't been especially keen to slip and slide down the icy paths in the southernmost part of their journey—but they do get there in one piece, and before nightfall at that.

The Vilemyr Inn is quaint and warm and full of friendly patrons. Marcurio pays for the room, a tight little spot in the corner with no door, while his husband makes friends, and said husband is about three seconds away from diving headfirst into a drinking competition before the Imperial steps in, reminding said husband that it's not a particularly good idea after the events of this morning. Said husband does a little bit of grumbling, privately, and then a lot of grandstanding, publicly, declaring that next time he'll drink his opponent under the table, no question. Marc just rolls his eyes and drags him along to bed for a good night's rest.

But any hopes Dal has of getting a good night's rest are dashed when he wakes up to his organs protesting their place inside his body.

He turns away from his place at his husband's back with a low groan, taking little sips of air into lungs that feel like they couldn't sustain a full breath if they tried, as he tries to get himself seated on the floor beside the bed as quietly as possible. The revelry out around the hearth has ended, leaving him hyperventilating on the ground in the dark red glow by himself, alone with his fear and the gasping sounds of him just trying to get enough oxygen to deal with the pain.

"Nn… Dal?"

He gasps, and it hurts, and his voice is like the groan of a door hinge when he tries answering. "Yeah?"

"Dal?" He sounds a lot more awake this time. Fuck. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dalamus tries his damndest to sound remotely normal, but he can barely get enough air in to speak and everything between his heart and his dick is one solid mass of complaint.

"Dalamus." the other's voice is right behind his head, and he finally gives in, clutching his stomach with a desperate whimper. It's too hard to focus on both convincing the Imperial to go back to sleep and breathing.

"It hurts…"

It should be amazing to witness, the way Marcurio leaps out of bed to kneel in front of his husband, but Dal isn't looking. He's dying, and his eyes don't want to open. He does sense when the mage settles in front of him, and there are hands are all over his body, insistently looking for the problem.

"What is it, what happened?" Marc is whisper-yelling at him and all he's trying to do is breathe. The concern is appreciated but if he pushes his stomach in like that again, they're going to fight.

"Nothing happened, it just _hurts_ ," it's a low whine, and he presses his hands into his thighs just to make his body feel something other than this awful cramping.

"What hurts?"

" _Everything_."

There's heat flooding down his throat that he doesn't know what to do with; usually he's able to force it away, but that's not something he can manage at the moment. It feels wrong to just let the sensation sit, neither using it nor pushing it away, but he doesn't have to worry about it for long because there are hands on him. One is cupping the side of his face and the other rests right above his navel and _Gods_ _bless_ Marcurio for the calm spell he casts.

"Hey, hey," the mage murmurs gently, his thumb brushing over a brow creased in pain. "Breathe for me, okay? Just breathe."

Dalamus breathes, and it's such a relief to actually fill his lungs with air for once. The calm settles on him like a blanket, quieting his panicked breathing and teasing the cramp apart like a knot. His eyes open and all he sees is the concern scrawled across the mage's face; why couldn't he have kept quiet? Their bags are piled in the corner, really not all that far away—he should have crawled over there and used some of the potions he hoards, instead of waking the Imperial up.

Marc is breathing with him, taking in deep lungfuls of air as if to remind him how it's done. When he's satisfied that the Dunmer hasn't forgotten how air works he lifts both hands to that still-pale face, meeting red eyes in the glow of the coals out on the hearth. "Are you okay?"

"Mhm," he hums in response, suddenly overcome with exhaustion.

There's a pause as the mage takes a long look at him, then a tiny little sigh. "Come on, let's get back to bed."

…

The rest of the night goes without incident, and Marcurio wakes to the sun shining through the slats in the roof onto his face. The bed, of course, is empty, but that's not a surprise; instead of asking himself stupid questions the Imperial just gathers their things and turns to leave.

"Your elf friend is outside," Wilhelm grunts as he passes, without looking up from the bar as he wipes away at the flagon in his hands. "You just missed him. He was looking a little green around the gills."

Well that means Dal couldn't have gone far. Marc thanks the barkeep, dropping an extra bit of coin on the counter, and heads outside. He literally takes three steps, just enough to exit the inn's porch, before he's graced with the delightful sound of his husband retching up his dinner into the river.

"So are you going to tell me what's going on?" the Imperial huffs as he stands, swishing river water around his mouth and spitting a final time.

"What do you mean?"

" _I mean_ , you've been throwing up every morning for days—your words," he feels the need to tack that part on there when the Dunmer opens his mouth, surely to disagree, "And you won't talk about what the reason could be. Have you started doing skooma or something?"

That deserves a laugh, apparently, because one explodes out of Dalamus, a single bark of disbelief. "No, Marcurio, I'm not doing skooma."

Marcurio crosses his arms. "Then what else have you been doing? Because this isn't normal. I'd say you were pregnant if it were possible, but it isn't, so what's the next best guess? What was that last night?"

"Just a stomachache, I guess," Dal shrugs; he's already tired of having this conversation, because there's nothing for him to add. Better to just let it pass and move on with their lives.

But, of course, he just can't have nice things. "That was _not_ a stomachache."

He huffs. "Well I don't know what it was any more than you do."

"That's fine," there's a pause, and the Dunmer thinks he's gotten away with dropping the subject. He's taken two or three steps up the path, on the way to get the horse, when Marc continues, "We're going to see the healers at the temple when we get to Riften."

And his voice actually does ring with finality, no shaking involved.

"For what?" Dalamus groans it, turning around to face him again with all the patience of an unhappy toddler.

"What do you mean, 'for what'? When's the last time your dinner came out your ass and not back up your throat?"

"I'm sick, I don't doubt that! But I don't need to fix it immediately; there is the option to let it run its course."

"But what if you're not sick?" Marcurio's voice drops suddenly, and the shock of it flows over Dal in a wave of goosebumps. "If you were sick I would have been able to heal you yesterday. What if something _bad_ happened, Dal? Like a… a curse, or some kind of poisoning? Did you think about that?"

"That's ridiculous, I haven't done anything that would get me cursed. You should know that, you've been everywhere I've been." But he looks away, his own voice dropping, because no, he hadn't thought about that.

"Well, neither of us have another idea, so we're going to see someone who can give us a better idea."

"Give me until we get back home, at least." it isn't supposed to sound like a question, but he's come to terms with begging by the time he's gotten all the words out. "If I'm not better by then—"

"Absolutely not," Marc walks all over the bargain he didn't even know how to finish, with a firm voice that leaves absolutely no room for argument. "We are going while we're in Riften, and if you'd stop arguing with me we might make it by nightfall."

Dalamus opens his mouth, trying one more time to plead his case, but the glare the mage levels at him dares him to even try. Instead he just sighs, and throws his hands up in the air. "Fine. I'll go get the damn horse."

…

A/N: God, this chapter became such a monster. I had NO intention of it getting this huge, and also I was supposed to upload this shit like 2 weeks ago, and I'm sorry. I'm immediately gonna hop on the next half of the chapter because I'm on a roll. I love this new version of things.

Back with the other half as soon as I can. xo


	4. Soul of a Dov I and a Half

A/N: Told y'all I'd be right back! Let's get to it.

Also, yes, I use Roman numerals because I'm extra.

…

The sun is leaning westward when Marcurio leads the horse up to the Riften stables, his husband knocked out cold on its back.

Some of the dragons must still be a little pissed off about Alduin's death; along their journey from Ivarstead they met four of the fire-spewing creatures, and only in the space of a few hours. Dalamus took it like a champ, meeting each one shout-for-shout, but the fourth soul that slammed into his chest had nearly knocked him off of his feet. The words never came out of his mouth but he was begging for a break, and the mage was determined to give him one—their meaningless spat ended with him up on the horse, and he was asleep before Marc even notices.

But now he's asleep, and they've arrived, and it's going to be a pain in the ass to wake him up.

"Dal. Dal, wake up," he tries, shaking him a little, though he doesn't even know why he's trying a gentle approach. The elf sleeps like a rock, and he knows this already. It's going to take much more than this to do anything effective. He shakes harder, but all that gets him is a little moan of complaint and a sleepy frown.

So he shoves Dal off of the horse, because screw it.

And Dal wakes up when he hits the ground, landing with a grunt and a gasp. It takes a second for him to get his bearings, if the wary panic on his face is anything to go by, but Marcurio just leans under the horse's neck with a smirk. "Good morning, sunshine."

"What the fuck?" the Dunmer asks flatly, as the adrenaline surging through his body settles down.

"I had to wake you up somehow," is his excuse, and he's sticking to it. Dalamus growls, rising to a crouch, and tackles him. Marc catches him right in the gut and they go rolling down the little hill in front of the stables, the horse completely forgotten in favor of wrestling in the dirt. They scuffle like little kids, laughing as they try to render each other immobile, and even though the mage catches an elbow in the chin and the Dovahkiin gets the back of his head banged into a rock they don't stop until Hofgrir gets sick of their shit.

"Hey, hey!" the horsemaster roars, clapping as he approaches them with long, rushed steps. He gets a good handful of Marcurio's robes, right between his shoulder blades, and yanks him up and off of the Dunmer. "You two are acting like children."

"So?" Dal is still cackling, panting in his place on the ground, his limbs and armor and face smudged with dirt. "We were having a good time."

"Not in front of my stables, you won't," Hofgrir grumbles. He looks meaningfully between the two of them before releasing Marc, taking the horse's reins and leading it up to the stables.

The Bee and Barb is quiet and mostly empty, only the same few ever-drinkers hunched over their mugs in tables pushed against the walls. Not much business in the middle of the day; everyone is busy with their jobs. No time to drink until after the sun goes down. At least, it _was_ quiet, because as they approach Marc throws the doors open with both hands, entering the inn with the cry of, "What does a man have to do to get a drink around here?"

"Marcurio?" Talen-Jei is already almost laughing when he finds the pair from across the room. "What are you doing here?"

"What, we can't just stop in for a visit?" Dalamus asks, crossing the room in the direction of the bar. He grasps the Argonian's forearm and gives him a firm pat on the back before settling on a stool before Keerava.

"We've got a fort to clear out a little west of here," Marcurio is quick to follow, sitting beside him. "Figured we'd stop by while we were in town."

"Well we're happy to have you," and Keerava puts a mug of fresh, cold mead down in front of each of them, her toothy maw widened in a smile.

Talen-Jei goes back to cleaning the floors, moving purposefully around the room with his broom. The pair of adventurers go through a few flagons of mead before Marc reaches into his coin purse, dropping a generous handful on the bar counter.

"Oh—Marcurio, there's no need for all that. It's on the house."

"Don't be ridiculous. This is for the mead and a room, and keep whatever's left over."

"Well, thank you," she doesn't argue again, sweeping the coins over the counter and into a chest at her feet. "So you'll stay the night and complete your contract in the morning, then?"

"That's the plan," Dal answers, tossing another mug of mead back.

"So what will you do until then?"

"We're going to see Maramal," the Imperial answers breezily and the Dunmer sighs, looking down into his empty cup.

…

"Dalamus, you are acting like a child!"

"If I'm acting like a child, then so are you!"

"You fucking promised!"

"No, I fucking did not!"

This conversation most certainly is happening in the doorway of the Temple of Mara, if anyone was confused. They're whisper-arguing, and the mage has a fist gripping the front of the Dragonborn's armor, while said Dragonborn's hands are firmly planted on either side of the temple's door. It's a close-quarters tug of war, and one that Dalamus should have no problem winning, given his clear muscular advantage over the Imperial, but somehow they've managed to settle into an uneasy stalemate.

"I wish you'd come in; you're letting in all the cold air."

Maramal's voice catches the both of them off guard, but Marcurio recovers faster than his husband does, finally getting him inside with a sharp yank on his armor. To his credit, Dal's biceps ache after having resisted his pull for so long.

"What can I do for you?" the priest asks, his voice low and kind.

Marc looks at his companion, waiting for the Dunmer to say something to Maramal, but doesn't have the patience to be passive-aggressive about this with him anymore. "We need to talk to Nura. I think Dalamus is sick. Is she here?"

Maramal's brows dip in concern and he turns to point them in the direction of one of the side rooms, gesturing with an arm. "She's back there. Mara go with you."

"Thank you." Marcurio takes the Dragonborn's hand, more to keep him from leaving the temple than just to hold it, and walks in the direction Maramal had sent them. Nura smiles from her seat, politely asking the adventurers what they need.

"Dalamus is sick," the mage says before Dalamus can even open his mouth. "He can't keep his food down; he's been throwing up for days, and he's tired all the time. He was up in the middle of the night yesterday with stomach pain, but I can't find anything wrong to heal. You must be able to do better than I can."

Nura listens to all the mage has to say, nodding thoughtfully, and when he's done her eyes flick over to the elf in question. "Is there anything else?"

Dal takes a breath, pointedly not looking at his husband when he speaks, "I can't eat a some of the things I usually do. I mean, well, I could—physically—but I see some things and by body's just violently opposed to the idea of putting it in my mouth."

"Things like what?"

"Sweets, mostly," it's muttered, and he feels like he's shrinking under an attentive amber gaze. "Which is weird, because I love sweets. And alcohol."

"But we were just drinking an hour ago."

Dalamus shrugs, still not looking up as he addresses his husband's comment. "I didn't want to give anyone anything to worry about, so I got through it. But it came back up when I went to take a piss."

Nura is silent for a moment as Marc rubs a hand down his face, looking exasperated. "Have you had interactions with any of the gods or Daedric lords recently?"

"Sheogorath turned him into a woman around two months ago," the Imperial says quietly, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed.

"And when did you become a man again?"

"After a few days," Dal takes a seat on a nearby bench, surreptitiously moving away from his husband and closer to Nura. "My being in a different body didn't disrupt our lives as much as he'd planned for it to, so he decided it wasn't worth it."

"Did the two of you have sex while you were female?" the priestess has a gleam in her eye as she says it, like she's onto something, and Marcurio doesn't like it.

"... Yes," the Dragonborn murmurs, finally lifting his eyes to meet the other man's. They'd fucked almost nonstop, reveling in the differences from their usual circumstances. And Marc hadn't pulled out, not once; they'd assumed from the start that Dalamus would be back to his normal self in a timely fashion.

But it doesn't hit him until Nura actually voices the question. "Do you think you might be pregnant, Dalamus?"

Marcurio can actually feel the blood draining from his face, and his throat clamps shut, and his stomach sinks so hard and fast that he thinks it may be attempting to fall out of his body.

" _Wait," Dal had asked breathlessly, her face still flushed a deep violet after her second orgasm, as Marcurio kisses up her body again, pausing to lavish her breasts in attention. "You came inside me… Is this safe?"_

 _Bright amber eyes, a little dilated with excitement, lift to her face. "Of course it is. You might look and_ _ **feel**_ _..." the word is a groan as he buries himself inside her again, "... like a woman, but I doubt Sheogorath went through all the work to change your insides around. Plus, you should be back to manhood before any questions of that sort become a problem."_

Gods, how could he have been so _stupid_?!

When he comes back to himself the first thing he sees is Dal sitting hunched over on his bench, elbows on his knees and hands fisting his hair. His eyes are glued to the Dunmer's form, how vulnerable and overwhelmed he looks, even as Nura continues, "If you have any doubts, there is a spell that can prove it one way or another."

Marc waits to see what Dal wants, if he'll have anything to say, but he just sits there, unmoving and silent. The mage turns to Nura, a little curious despite the enormous news she's just dropped on them. "Would Detect Life not work?"

"It is Detect Life, or at least a variant of it. Midwives and healers have been using it for generations to determine early pregnancies. If there's a name for it, it isn't one that I know."

The spell really isn't that different from Detect Life at all, and Marcurio has it down in mere moments. Dalamus moves as he's told, sitting back on the bench and lifting his shirt, but his face remains a stony mask that the mage dare not comment on. The new spell is a pink aura around his palm, and he holds it a hair's breadth away from the Dunmer's skin, looking for… _something_. Nura says that he'll know it when he finds it, if there is anything to find, and he has more than enough magicka to search thoroughly.

He'd expected to feel something magically, a little bump or buzz of foreign magic, or even just a sudden void of magicka, as if an unborn child has yet to develop any. But it is a Detect Life spell, after all; instead of any sort of feeling, he finds a little pink spot the size of a snowberry, glowing somewhere behind and below his navel. His gasp is completely unbidden, as is the smile that finds its way creeping across his face, but it doesn't have long to be there before Dal lurches off of the bench, shoving him out of the way in his rush to exit the room.

The front door to the temple opens and shuts in the emptiness following his departure.

…

A/N: I'm on a roll! Let's go. New story line is dope. Next chapter when I'm done with it. Hopefully in a week. xo


	5. Soul of a Dov II

A/N: I'm not getting better at this timing thing. I'm so sorry.

…

"Dalamus, come on!"

But the Dunmer keeps walking, marching quickly down the wooden walkway and ignoring him the whole while. Marcurio has to rush to keep up, and no matter how fast he goes Dal is always too many steps ahead. He thinks they're heading back to their room at the Bee and Barb, but they walk right past it, heading for the gate to the city instead.

"Dal, please, just let me—"

But he yanks the gate closed behind him, and the Imperial has to jump through the last little bit of space to make it out. On the other side Dalamus is walking faster, his fists balled at his sides, practically stomping down the hill away from the city to the north. Marc opens his mouth, taking a breath to try and get him to stop again, but the minute he goes to say the first word he's interrupted by the roar of a shout ripping through the air.

It isn't aimed at him, but the force of it knocks him on his ass anyway. The guard at the gate starts to protest—he just clears his throat, really—but the Dragonborn just stares him down, red eyes hard, until he quietly returns to his post. The gaze shifts to Marcurio.

"Let's talk about this, okay?" he tries, quietly, as if speaking too loud might set him off.

"I _asked_ you," the Dunmer growls, not only because his voice is still roughened from the shout. "I asked you if it was safe and you said yes!"

"I didn't know! I made an educated guess based on the information we had. How was I supposed to know you'd get pregnant? You're a _man_!"

"I wasn't a man then! You c—" he breaks off suddenly, eyeing the nosy guard at the gate, and when he starts again, his voice is significantly lower, a rough whisper. "You came insideme. You came inside my…" he searches for a more dignified word, discovers that he doesn't know one, "my _cunt_ , and now we have these fucking consequences to deal with."

"It doesn't have to be just 'consequences'," Marc murmurs, pushing himself up to his feet. He takes the other's hands in his own, thumbs brushing over the racing pulse at the insides of his wrists. "I think… I think we could do this, don't you?"

Dal squints up at him, disbelief written across his face, before he tears away. "I can't talk about this right now."

"Where are you going?" he's moving down the hill so fast that the Imperial has to call after him, still deliberating on whether to follow after or not.

"To clear that dungeon." the Dragonborn doesn't even turn around to answer, making his steady way northward.

"Wh— right now? All of our things are still at the inn."

A navy-grey hand lifts to tap the bow at his back. "I've got everything I need with me."

Marcurio chooses to be one of those things.

…

Dalamus holds his breath, stilling his body and shifting his aim just slightly, and is just about to let fly when purple-blue lighting flares in his peripheral, arcing toward his mark. It surges through the bandit, rippling through his body before bouncing off onto another, and another after that. The archer drops his arms, slowly releasing the tension on the bowstring and in his bicep with a forced peace, taking a deep breath to try and oust the fire growing behind his sternum.

"Marcurio," he says lowly, and his voice sounds like thunder in the wide, open space of the room the mage has just single-handedly emptied. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" oh, he tries it. He really does, feigning innocence as he kills the bright twinkling at his fingertips, but the Dunmer exhales a low, rumbly growl right in the middle of his 'what'.

"Stealing my fucking kills!" Dal roars back, "I had that guy; you just walked up and chained lightning through him—all of them—by yourself!"

"It just seemed obvious," the mage murmurs, still hanging onto that fake blamelessness. "I could leave you be and then we'd have to fight all three of them, or I could take them all out at once. This way you didn't have to expend yourself."

"When did having to fight become a problem to you?"

But he doesn't get an answer, because their volume had alerted the final occupants of the fort to come rushing in their direction. They fall into their usual positions, each keeping his eyes open for things the other's missed, as the five or six bandits of varying experience approach. Marc keeps them from getting too close while Dalamus picks them off from afar. The magic is messy, widespread in its destruction, but the Dunmer's kills are clean; an arrow in the neck, one in the side of the head, one in the chest, right in between the ribs. The last one standing is the Chief, a towering Nord woman cloaked head to toe in thick metal armor. But her face… oh, the poor, deluded thing. Dal puts an arrow through her eye and is done with it.

The loot isn't great, but it's fine for this little, two-level fort. The final chest is in a tiny alcove to the side of the room where the Chief must have come from; the Dragonborn is about to dive for it when Marcurio grabs his arm, holding him back.

"What?"

"You might want to be a little more careful," the mage says, and Dalamus yanks away from him at the words.

"Get off," he snarls, taking a step back. "Stop treating me like a gods-damned woman!"

"I'm not treating you like a w—"

"You are! And it's suffocating."

"I'm sorry my trying to keep you alive feels suffocating," it's grumbled, not quite under his breath but lower than they had been speaking, and the Dunmer rolls his eyes.

"You never acted like this before you caught me retching in a bucket. Relax, I can handle myself."

So he goes for it, diving lockpick-first into the chest, and gets right to it. The latch opens with a heavy _snap_ , and right as he lifts the lid there's the sharp sound of metal sliding against metal; a shard of hot pain burrows into the flesh between his shoulder blades, just below the base of the long scar he'd gotten at Skuldafn. He doesn't even have time to say anything before his body grows dozens of pounds heavier, his eyes roll back into his head, and he falls forward, his top half landing inside the chest.

…

Everything is fuzzy when Dal tries opening his eyes, and tinted golden, like it was inside the Hall of Valor.

His heartbeat immediately triples.

He's dead? There's no way he's dead; he can't be dead. No way that was enough to kill him. He's gone through too much more than that stupid chest trap and lived to die this way. And he'd thought he'd be with his ancestors when he finally kicked the bucket, not here in this castle full of Nords; what gives?

He still can't really see but someone's standing above him, beside the bed he's on, and he has to ask— "... Am I dead?"

"You're not dead," the voice of the person sounds annoyed that he'd even asked the question, and it sounds a lot like Marc's. "Go back to sleep."

And, really, he's happy to oblige; the relief of not being dead soothes away his adrenaline rush, and he's left feeling kind of empty, and exhausted. He could swear all he does is blink, but when his eyes open they're not blurry anymore, and Marcurio is no longer standing above him. Instead the mage is seated at the foot of the bed, legs crossed, hair released from its ever-present horsetail, trying again at the telekinesis spell.

"How long has it been?" he tries, and the way his voice cracks speaks to how much time has passed.

The book that had been floating at the level of Marc's lap sinks to the ground with a resounding _thud_. He sighs, closing his eyes when he answers. "A few hours. It's the middle of the night."

"Oh."

"I hope you enjoyed not suffocating while you were unconscious," he says, and Dalamus isn't standing, but his stomach drops to his feet anyway.

"Why's that?"

"Because you're grounded," it's said simply, but the words carry weight, and the Dunmer immediately wants to protest, but Marcurio's still talking. "I don't know if anything like this has happened to anyone before, so we have no way of knowing how this is going to go. It would make me feel a lot better if you could just be careful while we figure it out."

"Wh— when am I not careful?" because out of all the things the mage said, that's the one that insulted him the most.

"You just got stabbed in the back, and _poisoned_ , by the way, by a trap you ignored!" Marc takes a deep breath, running his hands back through his hair, and lets it out as a long groan of frustration. "No. No dungeons, no dragons, no forts or caves or ruins. You know what? No Harbinger, no Dragonborn. For the next seven months, you're just Dal."

Now onto the second most insulting thing. "Marc, fighting is literally my entire life, how could you ask me to give that up?"

"There are other things, don't you see that?" he shifts, turning to face his husband, and leans forward to take his hands. "Dalamus, look. This is my fault; I know that. I got you pregnant being careless and, really, a little selfish, and I'm sorry. But now that it's happened, there's nothing else I'd rather do than raise a child with you. And I want to do everything I can to keep you and that child out of harm's way; I'm sorry it feels suffocating, but I need you to relax."

For a moment, all Dal can hear is his heartbeat. These kinds of moments always throw him off guard; he's so used to light-hearted, playful Marcurio that he doesn't know what to do with such a heavy topic. But they were going to have to talk about this eventually. "… I don't know how to do this."

"What, relax? It's easy, you just stop doing dangerous things. You'll get the hang of it." Ah, there it is.

"I mean being pregnant," Dalamus keeps his eyes down on their hands, thumbs busy brushing over the tan skin between his palms. "Should we find Sheogorath again? Ask him to turn me back?"

Marc squints. "… That's probably not a good idea. You've met him twice now and escaped mostly unscathed; I don't think we should press your luck."

"So, what, I just stay pregnant? Won't that be a problem?"

"I don't know. But we'll just take it a day at a time," he pauses, meeting Dal's eyes. "But you have to calm down, Dal, you have to. Can you do that?"

And he has no choice but to be as honest as he can in his reply. "I'll do my best."

…

A/N: wow, I'm really and truly awful at this. I'm trying, I promise. I have no idea how these fanfic artists churn out 15-page chapters reliably every week, they're gods. Here's to having the next joint up in a reasonable amount of time. /clink

xo


	6. Soul of a Dov III

A/N: I'm gonna have this up in a timely fashion. I'm gonna have this up in a timely fashion. I'm gonna have this up in a timely fashion. I'm gonna have this up in a timely fashion. I'm gonna have this up in a timely fashion. I'm gonna have this up in a ti—

Holy shit it's fuckin' May. All because I didn't know how I wanted to write an argument.

…

Marcurio wakes when he rolls over onto bare, chilled sheets. He opens his eyes and there's no white hair in his vision… he lays still for a moment, listening hard for the sound of the Dunmer retching up his dinner, but his suspicions are confirmed when he finds that he's alone in the house.

" _Dal_ ," he groans, voice low and rough with sleep, and runs a hand down over his face. They'd talked about this! He can't go sneaking out in the middle of the night like some kind of wayward child; he's _pregnant_ , for gods' sakes! With a huff he gets up out of bed, yanking on a shirt and a pair of breeches.

"I'm going to murder him," the mage growls as he leaves the house, casting Clairvoyance, and slams the door shut behind him.

…

Dalamus grins as another of his arrows buries itself to the fletchings in a Falmer's face. This place is amazing, and so close to home! He hadn't even brought the horse with him; Shimmermist Cave is only a bit of a walk away, and it's full of Falmer, their things, charuses, and spiders, basically excellent target practice. So far he hasn't seen any machines, which just makes it better. Why hasn't he ever come through here before?

It probably takes a few hours to make his way through completely—he isn't particularly great at estimating how fast the time passes—but eventually he finds himself crouching in the corner of a large room, his arrow nocked and aimed at the crowned head of the Falmer den mother/queen/whatever the fuck it's called. He holds his breath, stilling his bow to immaculate aim, and only releases the air when he releases the arrow. It flies straight and true, whistling as it climbs, then drops, landing with a squelch deep inside the cave elf's skull. She lets out a croak and falls forward with the momentum of the arrow, cracking her head loudly on the stone floor. Dal moves over to the body, looking through her pockets and pouches, and is busy mentally calculating the amount of gold it'll all sell for when the sound of a deep, mechanical groan slams into him from the side.

 _Oh, Gods, no._

In the far corner of the chamber a Dwarven centurion is peeling itself out of its dock beside the crumbling wall. His stomach tries to fall straight down out of his body; the last and only time he'd fought one was in Alftand, and that hadn't quite turned out fantastically. The only reason he isn't dead now is because of the gate he'd managed to throw up a few seconds too late. He didn't come here to die. So he stands up slowly, carefully, turns toward the exit….

And runs like the whole of Oblivion is behind him.

The centurion roars, so loudly that Dalamus thinks his ears might be bleeding, and large steps follow him down the incline back into the bowels of the cave. A loud hiss fills the air and warm liquid sprays across the back of his neck, far cooler than it should have been. The machine is close, but not close enough to kill him. Yet.

His heart is pounding in his chest and in his ears and the _pappappap_ of his booted feet hitting the stony floor echoes through the cave that feels like it will _never fucking end_ , but it can't even hope to compete with the _THUD. THUD. THUD._ that is the centurion chasing after him. Close. Quickly. If he can get back far enough he can hide—it'll go right past him, maybe. Hopefully. His lungs are on fire, legs pumping relentlessly as he continues through the passageway, and when he turns the corner he wants to weep with relief.

The room is perfect, rife with thick, heavy shadows that he can hide in. If it doesn't catch him first the centurion will eventually give up the search here to look elsewhere, and it's too big to get all the way to the entrance. Dal curls up in a corner, shrouded in darkness, and uses the heat in his chest to hiss a low, " _Laas, yah_."

Has his heart always been this loud?

The glowing, red form of the centurion comes charging into the corridor and pauses, searching for its quarry. Dalamus doesn't know how its senses work, but its sight isn't anything spectacular because it walks right past him, experimentally blowing a spray of steam down the hall leading toward the exit. When nothing comes from looking in that direction it swings the top half of its body around, moving back the way it had come, as if it knows that it's missed him somewhere and is going to retrace its steps. It's exactly the opening he's looking for; he inches out from the cover of the shadow, his steps landing at the same time as the centurion's to make sure he isn't heard. But he's more worried about matching the machine step-for-step than watching where he's going and he trips over a rock barely a foot into the hall, falling back on his ass. And he would have sat there in silence, hoping it had gone unnoticed, but the centurion's huge golden form turns toward him.

It had not gone unnoticed.

He scrambles to his feet, fully aware of the fact that he has to do something or he'll be literally dead in seconds, but the life-detecting shout he'd whispered earlier is still holding his lungs hostage and his mind is a blank of panic, besides. He just stares as the machine approaches, like a cornered rabbit, and doesn't even have the presence of mind to meditate on what looking death right in the face is like.

"Move!"

Marcurio?

And suddenly Dal is yanked back to the floor by the collar of his armor. He barely manages a glance up at the form of his husband, arms wreathed in shimmering blue magicka all the way up to the elbows, before his vision fills with bluish-white.

By the time he thinks it might not hurt _that_ much to open his eyes, the idea that he might be in trouble crosses his mind, but it flits away just as quickly as it had come, chased by the realization that… he isn't breathing right.

He pulls his legs up to his chest, trying to get his lungs to behave, and his hands raise to his ears, fists pressing in tight as the ringing left over from Marc's spell shears into his brain. Try as he might the image of Lydia, speared through and bleeding out and gasping thin, wet breaths refuses to yield mental real estate to other things, like addressing his rapidly darkening vision. The hissing sound of the machine settling into its death makes Dalamus think he feels steam melting his skin and his limbs begin to tremble.

It's gradual but somehow it also feels like it happens all at once—his brain is shutting down, like the final, cooling coals of a fire turning from glowing orange to ashen gray. It feels like his chest is too small for his lungs and it's keeping him from getting any air in, in a completely different way from that night at the Vilemyr Inn. This is a new level of not being able to breathe.

He's so busy retreating into himself in panic, wrapped up in it as he is, that he barely recognizes the sensation of Marcurio kneeling in front of him, and hands grasping at his arms.

"Dal?!"

His eyes open and his vision is gray around the edges, small and far away and blurry with tears, but the fact that the Imperial's face is filling the parts he can see gives him an unreasonable amount of relief. The hands he reaches back with are still shaking as they grasp at the other's sleeves, looking for something to ground himself with.

"Breathe with me, Dal, everything's fine," Marc tells him, taking deep breaths and trying to get him to follow along. Those hands lift to Dal's face and the white-green calm spell coats the Dunmer's skin like armor; it calms his frenetic heartbeat, and opens his chest up so he can breathe. Suddenly he's seeing the glow of the spell in his peripheral vision instead of that fuzzy darkness.

"Are you alright? Did it hurt you?"

"No, no," he pushes those searching hands back a bit, then swipes both palms down his face. "I don't know what happened to me. I just fell apart. I'm totally fine."

"Oh, you're fine." Marcurio settles back on his heels with a sigh, brushing his hair back out of his face, and moves to get up. "You're totally fine, that's great. That's perfect. I'm glad you're fine. It's good that you're fine."

"Wh…" the tone of the Marc's voice hits him right in the chest, as does the image of the mage walking away swiftly, cracking his knuckles. Dalamus has to lengthen his stride to keep up—his legs are shorter than the taller man's—but he stays well ahead, and even after he runs out of knuckles to crack he continues to rub his palms together like he's trying to keep them warm.

When they finally break into the weak dawn sunlight the Dunmer decides he's had enough, and jogs to catch up to Marc, grasping for his linen shirt, "Marcurio—"

" _Have you_ _lost your fucking mind_?" the mage whirls on him, leaning down to get in his face.

The sudden action reignites the heat in Dal's throat but he shrinks back at the other's ferocity, his voice coming out small. "Excuse me?"

Marcurio seems to reel it in a little but his eyes are no less hard. "Dalamus. I thought we talked about this."

"Talked about what? You said 'I don't want you fighting anymore' and that was it. This wasn't a discussion," it's a point that still makes him upset, and the anger gives him confidence. He keeps going, eyes following the way the Imperial lets out an exasperated breath and walks in a wide circle. "It's been weeks. You've had me holed up in that damn city for _weeks_. Forgive me if I wanted something to do."

"Oh, you were bored," that comes out as a laugh, though there's no humor in it. "You're right, dying does seem like a fun way to shake up your life."

"I wasn't going to die! It was just Falmer and spiders; I didn't have a single problem until—"

"Until you were _about_ to die!" Marcurio roars it, and it's like those words suck the energy out of him because he slowly sits on the ground, working his fingers like he's cracking them even though there's no crack left in them. 'Die' is still echoing through the hills when he continues. "If I hadn't been there… fuck, if I'd noticed you were gone just a moment later, you might have died, Dalamus."

Dalamus can't really do anything but listen as the mage goes on, and his heart aches.

"Or if I hadn't noticed at all, and you did manage to do something about the centurion, you still might have had that… breakdown, whatever it was. Who knows how long you would have been down there, by yourself, hyperventilating in the dark?"

"I'm sorry," he croaks out, throat dry with shame. "I was being reckless, and selfish, and putting myself in harm's way for no reason."

"It's not just you, Dal." Marc's eyes lift to his and they're dark, and sobering. "You are carrying our child. There's another life that you have to look out for, or at the very least, stay alive for. I want to take care of you, both of you, as best I can, but I can't do that if you're running around almost getting yourself killed."

"I can take care of myself," Dal tries to say, but it comes out weak and unconvincing after the ordeal they'd just gone through.

"Can you?" the mage snaps it, but is quick to reign himself in with a deep breath. The calm that settles on his shoulders seems to take a lot of effort, and Dalamus decides to stop arguing from this point on. He doesn't get another chance to, though, because Marcurio leans forward to grab his hand. "Come here, sit in front of me."

The grass is brittle where the elf sits, but there's a lot of it, so it cushions well enough. "You didn't get to see this before," the Imperial says, scooting forward a little so Dal ends up in between his legs, "So repeat what I say very carefully."

"You're teaching me a spell?"

The response he gets is an affirmative hum, and Marcurio's chin rests on his shoulder. "The Detect Life spell Nura shared when we were in the temple. You left before you got a chance to try it for yourself."

"I was mad at you, I wouldn't have tried it anyway."

"Well now I'm mad at you, so that's exactly what you're gonna do." The mage's hands dwarf his own, fingers linking and giving the smaller blue pair a squeeze. "You don't have much magicka, so let's do this. Repeat after me."

It takes a bit of time and a wrinkle of concentration in the Dunmer's brow, but eventually he learns the spell. The words fit strangely in his mouth and he isn't sure he's doing it right until the red glow at the corners of his vision tells him he's succeeded. It's weird though, he isn't sure what it was that made Marc's face light up like it did in the temple. What could have assured him so certainly that he was going to be a fath–

 _Oh_.

He sucks in a slow breath, unable to pull his eyes away from the glowing red dot floating in the center of his belly, "Is that…?"

"Yes." Dalamus hears more than feels his husband smile despite their faces being pressed together, and it warms his heart to know how excited the Imperial already is. The brown hands wrapped around his navy ones squeeze gently. "That's our baby."

The Dunmer finds himself smiling, too, nuzzling his cheek against that stubbly face. "I can't believe it, it's so… tiny."

"Do you understand why I need you to calm down?" Marc nuzzles him back, but his voice is quiet and serious. His left hand releases Dal's and presses flush against his stomach. "You have to be careful with this, Dalamus, please."

"I will, I promise."

"That's what you said last time."

"In my defense, all I said was 'I'll do my best,' but..." Dalamus lifts the hand he's still holding to his lips, giving it a kiss. "I mean it. I'll be good."

"Thank you," it comes out in a sigh, and the guilt settles on his shoulders anew. "Let's go home. I'm tired."

…

Dal keeps his word, with a few concessions. He's allowed a contract every three weeks, so long as Marcurio goes with him on all of them and takes point. It's hard to give up the lead but he's happy to be able to use his shooting muscles again.

The second he starts showing Marc shoves him into the temple. Danica listens to their situation very thoughtfully, and agrees to help them see the pregnancy through.

As the time wears on the pregnancy begins to hurt. Dalamus tries to keep his more minor aches quiet but the mage can read him like a book. Any slight change in the way he moves, any little wince or pause to press a fist into his back and he's immediately sent into the bedroom for a foot- or back- or neck rub. It had quickly become a priority to said mage to keep his husband as comfortable as possible, considering the fact that the male body isn't exactly suited for pregnancy.

Some time about seven months in, this is where the Dunmer finds himself, sitting near the edge of the bed with Marcurio behind him, gently working his knuckles and fingertips into Dal's lower back.

"You were always so excited about this…"

The mage looks up, pulled out of his focus by the words. "Hm?"

"When we found out I was pregnant," Dalamus reiterates, glancing over his shoulder. "You were instantly excited; you should've seen the grin on your face when you cast that spell for the first time."

"Weren't you?"

"I was mad about it, and then I didn't know what to think. All I knew was that there wasn't anything I could do about it one way or another."

Admittedly that admission gives Marc no small amount of concern, but he decides to keep kneading the sore spots at his husband's back. "And?"

"And, well, I..." he grows quiet, considering his words carefully. But the mage doesn't know that, and his hands stop moving. He just stares at the back of Dal's head, holding back the urge to speak until the Dragonborn quietly continues, "I was scared. I _am_ scared."

Marcurio's brows draw together, and when his hands move again it's to pull the other man closer. "Why?"

"... What if I'm not a good father?"

"Wh– of course you will be," the mage murmurs, holding the silverhead to his chest. "You can do anything. You've literally saved the world, Dal."

"Yeah, by killing. All I do is kill things. I don't know how to nurture, to build. It's not like I had the best role model to teach me how."

"I specialize in destruction magic, but I learn the new things when I need to." He carefully avoids bringing his own father up for comparison. "As long as the intent is there you'll do just fine."

But that doesn't seem to quell his worries any, so the Imperial continues,"If it helps, I read once that dragons are even more protective of their young than bears. They'll burn down whole towns, kill hundreds of people and creatures and raze acres upon acres of land just to make sure their hatchlings aren't harmed. If anything, you'd hurt everyone else."

"That doesn't count, Marcurio, I'm serious. Don't give me lore." He sits up, turning to look the other man in the face. "You're telling me you aren't worried about any of it?"

Marc levels a look at him, and rests a hand on his rounded stomach. "Dal. You're a pregnant man; of course I'm worried. And I'm sure every parent has concerns at this stage. Parents have concerns at every stage. But I've always wanted children, so I'm more excited than daunted."

"Oh."

"You didn't?"

"Honestly, I never thought about it," Dalamus settles back into his place below the mage's chin with a sigh. "I guess I would have wanted one or two eventually, especially if I was keeping the farm. But that was before Skyrim, before all of this. So much has changed. I don't know if I'm ready."

"It isn't about being ready, especially because we don't really have a choice in whether or not this baby's coming in a few weeks. It's about taking it one day at a time, and doing our best."

"Careful, you don't want to overcomplicate things." it's murmured, but Marcurio catches it.

"Well, that's what it boils down to," he kisses the head of white hair below his chin. "We don't have time to get ready. This baby is coming, and from the moment they're born until they're grown, our top priority is making sure they grow up with everything they need. You're already doing that."

"Am I?"

"You stopped running around trying to get yourself killed." he wraps his arms around Dal's middle, cradling that rounded belly. "You realized that putting our child first was the most important thing. You don't have to be worried at all, Dal; you're gonna be a great father."


End file.
